My Name is Mud

I am trying everyday


to break out of the spell


but it feels like i'm just spinning


my tires in the mud;


when your doing this all alone


it is extremely difficult to find any pleasure


or meaning in the existence that is cast in front of your eyes.




Author's Notes/Comments: 
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Does a Man really Choose?

Eventually a man gets tired of watching porn


and desires something more real and tangible


eventually a man gets tired of being alone


but it can be hard to break the cycle of hermeticism


Like you are cursed forever to be solitary in the desert


Like some of black magic hex has been placed on you



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Light and Dark

Sometimes I hear the ghosts of my past

Often they whisper in my ear

Just out of consciousness

Barely audible, but present


Memories of those gone by

Now immortal in my mind

Forever they'll exist in me

Or at least as long as I live


For we are scars on the membrane of time

Carving our existence deep into it's flesh

Dying to gain immortality

Our existence tantamount to the memories of others



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Man's Purpose

Stepping on split skulls and bones

Of bygone daughters and sons

We head into the abyss

Embraced by hell’s dear shadows

Reality’s mundane kiss

Welcomes us in the burrows

of Death, her friend oblivion

awaiting on the doorstep,

Laughs at Man’s every next step

Nearing the grave, the none.


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Who am I?

Have you ever asked this question?

Who am I?

Why have I been chosen to be born?

What is my ultimate function?


It is only to serve humanity,

It is only to help the needy ones,

It is only to be compassionate,

It is only to show mercy.


If we behave humanely,


Then our job is done exclusively.

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Warped Existence

Self Loathing



Never been the one

To stand and fight

For the dreams

That sore so high


I’m the one that hides

With fear inside

Living on burnt memories


Can’t seem to find

A fresh start

A new beginning

Without hindering hands


That grasp my sanity                      

Preventing me

To take a stand


I’m hurting and bleeding

From self-inflicted moods

When will I learn to love?

And heal these open wounds


How can I stop dying on the inside?

Rotting and withering away

Picking up my shattered pieces

In hope, that they’d stay



Breaking free from this hold

No longer listening to what I’m told

I’m sold on this future, meant to be


All these thoughts

Crashing down

The storm’s coming

And I’m here waiting


Can’t be hell bound

Chains wrapped around me

Screams with no sound


Sold on stories told

Silver linings and sun shine

Coming after the rain

Please erase this pain, warring


Ripping off this sorrow

Like clothes off my back

There can only be a better tomorrow


So let the rain come

Wash me clean

Swipe the things off my plate

That keep me, from me



Unintelligible Existence

Never ending it seems

The dance of life 
That we hold so sacred 

But who are we to sway into this mortal realm 

Labeling ourselves to some means of importance
Yet always looking to the sky for a glimmer of hope 
That our significance has some manner of substance 

For we are nothing more than lost children 
Always pretending that we have a grip on this reality

But at our core we shake at the unknown
And pray that the belief that we have chosen does not lead us astray 

What is the worth of the unintelligible existence 
That we so eagerly live
And what will we see when we awake after it all ends
~ Tony Paradise's Poet ~
My Blog - http://rarityofparadise.blogspot.com/
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Seven Deaths*

Dusk's Rule

She begins her journey, walking out into the false lights,

Having adorned herself to an image of one beauty,

Ignoring advice, warnings, of the deranged, deceitful,

Only moments take a world to shatter, to fall, crumble,

Vile violence that erupts, volcanic, molten, and caustic,

Ash settles and all stand to judge events, eyes with their truths,

No longer stoned, but still blamed--more defenders emerge.


So memories fade and justice forgotten by dinner,

As it were only necessary to eat, than to starve,

Comfort of dining strains not like emptiness to the mind,

And so breath becomes harsh, labored, ignored but still feeding,

Should the old masters know the method of rule was to board,

Lest their reign of offspring come to an end they should provide,

'Til we are drugged by our own gluttony, mind numbed to sleep.


Hail the kings of the shadows who gather gold in dim light,

They squeeze more than their fathers for every ounce within all,

Now forego wisdom of sly, quiet, rule for godliness,

Deception of beliefs creates those who believe their worth,

How a poor man may believe one day he'll rule with them too,

Ultimate trickery unto the mind who believes such,

That only they produce,  deserving all silver & gold.


But still fed, bed in home, staring to dark light, 'til we're old,

Brains no longer brazenly curious, thought disappeared,

Bottled into media fed facts, fast meals the next thought,

Born to believe, no desire to question the stated truths,

Because the question begs why for, while sustained by full draught,

Become the rebel when not I suffers, the self right rules,

Before the eyes 'tis easier to turn head, than legs stand.


However, there are those who recognize and make demand,

Which calls forth the animosity of powers to be,

Striking peaceful protesters in pure misplaced mad power,

Only those who bow should not be struck, care not you or me,

So begins the slow awakening, threatened from above,

Should you wake from the slumber, risk being silenced, sliced, slain,

Strive, survive, to strike back against the slithering serpents.


Let peace find all, empowering light and love, leave out hate,

Lest it begin and bred again from desire from the dark,

Sight of the future, of those who had before, all items,

Don't fill the heart with poisoned wants promised from the fallen,

Corruption of the core, the cause caved and again sullen,

Green gems and glistening gold tugs at the shadows within,

Pulls purity out, so starts cycle of withering.


Fight against all sins that should make pride die, reborn hubris,

Disaster and desire are the same, anger and love,

Destructive and creative, we revere our reflections,

Hope glistens while despair darkens, balance our traits and talents,

Evolve, eradicate the unbalanced existences,

From monstrosity to magnificence humans emerge,

For that, pride may exist, but only an ounce, lead with love. 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

*May be altered to include more rhymes later. 


It may be a while until I can muster my might to come back and alter this, to polish it as it were. :P 

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Catholic Caravan

Reality, like childrens nail polish across my skin;

toxic film that wrinkles when I move my hand to reach for the television remote.


 Like a ghostly pretense,

or an old man's hand


that's only a membrane stretched over bones which have bent and cracked with the cobble stone, peeling paint times.


 Humans walk past me in my plastic arm chair, 

their bodies being stretched


 and ripped

from seconds before into watercolor zombies.


 My own saliva wraps around my brain, dripping down into my eyes and turning to milk. 

I can't feel the scintillating, raspberry thoughts


 bob through my mind and explode into a shower of citrus and wood stain.

From sitting to standing


 I can't even feel the transition blow against my skin.

Wading effortlessly through my existence


 I accidentally wiggle my hands into the holes of reality, and then I sit down again;

that rusty red moment


in which I could see through my eyelids is gone

and will only come again


 when another travels towards me in a catholic caravan.